


Already Cold (Cold Mind)

by Taboo



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Angst, Fluff and Humor, Kidnapping, M/M, Mentions of drugs, Natasha Romanov Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:54:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Taboo/pseuds/Taboo
Summary: It occurs to him in three parts as their lips eventually meet.One; wherever he was (or whenever, he could be in the future or some other alternate timeline, he doesn't discriminate) it was not at all real. He’s come to terms with this, even guessing it the moment they spoke, and that much is evident with the presence of the warm body laying with him. No one is this intimate, this domestic, with him in the real world. Sure, he’s got friends, but he doesn't have a love, at least not one that reciprocates his feelings.Two; he’s never underestimating the strength of drugs again. This shit is powerful.Three; in this world here, and every other like it, including his own, he is very much in love with Tony Stark.





	Already Cold (Cold Mind)

**Author's Note:**

> hi hello this is unbeta'd because i'm shy 
> 
> also first time posting something pretty lengthy
> 
>  
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> so
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> 
> kudos and comments are appreciated 
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>  
> 
> i don't own marvel or supernatural i only wish i did

 

 

When he finally, _finally,_ comes to, from what his hazed senses can gather, it’s in a dim, candle-lit room, the steady up and down of his chest almost a mechanical sound in his ears. His eyes stay closed by their own volition, but his limbs twitch flippantly, sluggish from disuse. There’s a weight on his chest, not very heavy, but solid and warm. If his eyes would be so kind as to open, he’d be assured that danger wasn’t impending or waiting just beyond his reach — so he tries to force them open. _On three,_ he thinks, counting down with the shallow exhales of his breath. On the third, he wills his eyes to join the rest of his body in attention.

 

On all sides, dandelion-yellow walls glare back at him, accentuated by the gleaming sunlight coming in through floor-to-ceiling windows. Bright spots pass over his vision as a result, though they fade as quickly as they came. He blinks the blurriness out of his eyes, casting his sight down to the pressure on his chest, his breathing halting fully at the display before him. Draped across him, tied in the sheets with him, sharing his space is the one person he’s always dreamed of lying with. And that must be all this is, isn’t it? Just a dream — an oddly comforting, palpably realistic muse his mind had conjured up after months of longing. The body stirs gently in its sleep, features resting peacefully; mouth slightly parted, eyelashes casting wonderful shadows across marble-cut cheekbones. Steve would give up everything he owns just to become an well-known artist, in hopes of creating painting after painting to do this grandeur before him a righteous justice. They fuss slightly now, a quiet protest of exhaustion vibrating from deep within their throat. They nestle further into Steve’s side, sighing into his skin, the sensation nearly burning him with tenderness.

 

“Good morning, beloved,” they whisper into him, and Steve is shocked still by the words. It _must_ be real now, there’s no way he wouldn’t recognize the gruff tone of this vice, nor the smug pleasure glimpsing through. He’s been greeted by this voice for months now, he’s committed the rasp to memory, it talks to him in his dreams at night. Though why _now_ , why all of a sudden are they with him?

 

“This isn't real,” he says, expressing his doubt. He wills himself to focus on anything other than the sensation of their fingertips on his skin. They scoff, a muted puff of air barely perceptible to his ears.

 

“You say that like I’m not right here laying with you,” they reply, timbre resolute. Their fingers traverse an abstract pattern along his ribs, halting by his underarm, only to reverse their movements. “I’m as real as the andromeda galaxy, darling,” they boast. Steve nods uncertainly, acutely aware of the lips pressed to his collarbone.

 

“Why do you think it isn’t?” They ask, propping themselves up on one elbow, eyes aligned with Steve’s. He would die with the bright hue of them burned into his mind, he’s sure of it.

 

Steve shakes his head. “You’re brilliant. Stunning. Selfless. Everything I don’t deserve.” They laugh at that, the reverberation dancing in the air. It’s a luxurious sound, one that reminds Steve of a crackling fire, and simpler times.

 

“And what about that makes me so unreal?” they propose, eyes ablaze with amusement. Steve considers it, rolling the question around in his head, finding that he doesn’t have a true explanation.

 

“You weren’t here yesterday,” he blurts, not exactly what he wanted to say, but a close enough proposition. “I would remember it.”

 

“You must have had a wild night, then,” they hum, leaning in close to his face, lips a finger breadth from his own. “I’m always here,” they assure him, words brushing against his mouth. It’s _not_ real, Steve acknowledges more so now. They quelling of his longing would not come so easily to him, and no matter his state of mind he would remember it exactly — down to the smallest detail, the very millisecond they came together.

 

It occurs to him in three parts as their lips eventually meet.

 

One; wherever he was (or whenever, he could be in the future or some other alternate timeline, he doesn't discriminate) it was not at all real. He’s come to terms with this, even guessing it the moment they spoke, and that much is evident with the presence of the warm body laying with him. No one is this intimate, this domestic, with him in the real world. Sure, he’s got friends, but he doesn't have a love, at least not one that reciprocates his feelings.

 

Two; he’s never underestimating the strength of drugs again. This shit is powerful.

 

Three; in this world here, and every other like it, including his own, he is very much in love with Tony Stark.

 

It only takes having the illusion of having it for him to come to terms with his feelings.

 

\- - - — — - - — — — — — — - - - - - - - -

 

An hour or so later, he’s perched on the edge of the bed with his head in his hands, dressed in trim, dark jeans, and a red short sleeved shirt that this Tony told him made his ‘muscles look extra saucy.’ The pull of the fabric is perceptible to him as he breathes hollowly. It’s alarming, really, how terribly real it all feels. The cotton of the shirt is as delicate as he remembers, the firmness of the bed beneath him excruciatingly familiar. But if this were really _real_ , there’s no doubt in his mind that he’d remember all the sensations and emotions that came with being around Tony, _intimately, romantically._ For the life of him, though, he has no recollection of how they got into this relationship, or where they stand now, for that matter.

 

“Ready, darling?” Not-Tony asks, stepping into the doorframe and stealing the air from Steve’s lungs. He’s been doing that a lot, in this reality, and Steve doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it. Not-Tony rolls his eyes fondly at Steve’s dumbfounded expression, sauntering over to stand between his knees, taking Steve’s face between his hands. The calloused skin feels ghostly on his heated cheeks. Steve presses his face to Tony’s clothed hip, inhaling softly, willing his senses to remember the scent of Not-Tony's cologne.

 

“Come on, love,” Not-Tony presses, leaning back to catch Steve’s eye. “We can’t spend our lives cooped up in here.” Steve nods, utterly dazed by his fantasy. He can’t help but feel as though he should honor this Tony’s every wish, the sheer _want_ he feels to make this sort of thing work pushes him forward.

 

“Where are we going, then?” He vocalizes, following the tug of Not-Tony’s hand clasped in his own. He’s lead them out into a corridor, the walls covered in pictures and paintings, some abstracts, some of the two of them. It’s hauntingly quaint.

 

“That’s a secret,” Not-Tony smirks, ushering Steve into the waiting elevator. Steve blinks back his confusion, searching Not-Tony’s face in further silent question. Not-Tony smiles at him warmly. “You can have your secrets, and I can have mine.” He bumps his shoulder against Steve’s gently, eyes trained on the descending numbers of the elevator. _No,_ Steve wants to say, _I don’t want to keep secrets from you._

 

What he really wants is to burst at the seams, beg and plead, demand to know why he’s living out the one desire he knows he’ll never have.

 

“You don’t mean it, I know you don’t,” he says instead, mouth blindly risking itself for his sake. Not-Tony hums in turn, eyebrows puzzled in confusion.

 

“In this- this world, Steve starts, suddenly embarrassed by the full attention this Tony gives him. “I don’t deserve you, and I know you don’t really want to be doing, whatever this is. You’re doing it because of me.” He forces his gaze away from Not-Tony, nerves bubbling and boiling throughout his veins.

 

Not-Tony squeezes his arm reassuringly. “Of course I mean it, sweetheart,” Not-Tony tells him, sliding his hand into Steve’s once more, linking their fingers together. “I’d hoped you’d know me well enough to realize how much you truly do deserve love.”

 

Steve nods dumbly. “Okay,” he says referring now to silence so he doesn’t make more of a fool of himself than he already has.

 

The elevator seems to have sped up time, Steve notices. As they step outside, the brilliance of the setting sun casts a wild glow on everything. He registers the sound of thunderous waves nearby as well, unlike anywhere he’s ever been.

 

“Malibu,” Not-Tony supplies from beside him, steadying Steve with an arm around his waist.

 

“It’s wonderful,” Steve gapes, relishing in the way the wind raises goosebumps on his bare arms. It feels so, _so_ real. Not-Tony nods agreeably.

 

“We can come more often,” Not-Tony suggests, resting his head on Steve’s shoulder and looking out at the sea along with him. Something tugs at Steve’s conscience, urging him on.

 

“Okay,” Steve agrees again, though he doesn’t think that was really what he wanted to say. This Tony wants him, his mind supplies. _Take it in stride._

 

Tony prods his side gently, huffing a light laugh.

 

“Come on, love,” he says once more, guiding Steve to the car that waits for them, just feet away from where they were standing before. Transitions in this realm must be more fluid, Steve guesses.

  
  
  


During the ride, Tony watches as Steve looks out the window at the landscape blurring by, the trees merely a streak of vibrant greens. They pull up in front of a charming little Italian restaurant, one that Tony tells him they’ve always loved going to. The wait staff greet them by their first names, furthering Tony’s claim. Even the frail old woman who owns the place comes over to their table to say hello, patting Tony’s hand lovingly, then turning to Steve to remind him how lucky he is, and how much he should cherish Tony. Steve nods at her gratefully, at least to hide the thickness of emotion in his throat.

 

Tony looks at him again, something close to unrestrained passion gleaming in his irises. Steve’s no more convinced of the actuality of this dream, but the sentiment ignites his blood even still.

 

Tony takes Steve’s hand from where it rests on the table, fluttering his thumb over Steve’s knuckles.

 

“I love you,” he says, smiling kindly. He punctuates his words with a squeeze to Steve’s hand, who is too awestruck to say anything in return. “I mean it, Steve, I love you. I just want you to remember that.”

 

“Remember?” Steve asks, and of course that’s the only thing he would take out of the statement. Tony seems wary at that, but he plows on in a familiar manner.

 

“Yeah,” He starts, “if you ever doubt yourself. Just want you to remember that I love you,” He affirms again, and while that doesn’t really help Steve’s uneasiness, it seems to quiet his anxiety a small amount.

 

They enjoy the rest of their time in the restaurant, talking about everything and nothing, Steve asking about their relationship and Tony not hesitating one bit to catch him up to speed. In the depths of his mind, Steve thinks that he should run, fight, get out of this weird reality while he can, but the loneliness in his soul gets the better of him every time.

 

  
  


\- - - — — - - — — — — — — - - - - - - - - -

 

The next morning, Steve wakes up the same way as before, smothered in Tony.

 

He’s not complaining, though.

  
  


It only gets weird when Tony greets him word for word as yesterday, and even weirder when Steve responds the same way he did yesterday.

  
  
  
  
  


Tony moves to get up, to get dressed probably, and take Steve to the same place as the day before, but Steve grabs hold of his shoulder tightly (maybe too tightly) to stop him.

 

“Tony,” he says, and his voice is awfully quiet now, that’s unusual,  “where am I?” Tony shakes his head at Steve, shooting him another smile. He tries for reassurance but Steve can’t shake the trepidation behind it.

 

“Steve, honey, you’re with me. In Malibu. Remember our date yesterday?” He questions back, running a hand through Steve’s hair, attempting to comfort him.

 

“Yes, that’s why I asked,” Steve replies, “we’re going to to do the same thing as yesterday, aren’t we?”

 

“Not if you don’t want to,” Tony assures him, after a flash of hesitation, holding his gaze for a long moment.

Steve shakes his head.

 

“I want to know the truth, Tony.” Tony backs away from him now, sitting up too straight, looking at Steve with too cold eyes.

 

“You don’t want the truth,” he says, steely gaze stopping Steve from doing anything more. “You don’t want the truth,” he repeats, “you want to stay in your own little world, away from anything that can hurt you. You want someone to love you. I love you,” he sounds automated, like a machine. And while Steve wouldn’t put it past the real Tony to make a machine of himself, this one is just too hyper-realistic — but _not_ , at the same time. The chill in Steve’s blood isn’t from the cold air, but the apathy lacing Tony’s voice. Steve gapes at him, unsure of what to make of this.

 

“You want the truth?” Tony tests, a devilish sneer molding his features. He’s older now, as Steve looks at him, more tired, angered creases lining the sides of his eyes, the draw of his shoulders forced and unnatural. _Still beautiful,_ Steve thinks, even though the ferocity of Tony’s demeanor is directed towards him.

 

“Truth is, I don’t love you. You’re weak. You let a measly crush take over your life, consume your being. You’re pathetic, tried and failed to put your life to an end,” they’re outside now, back on the same cliff-face as yesterday, Steve realizes, wind whipping Tony’s hair violently. The strangeness of this world’s mechanics have Steve stumbling, beating away at his bearings. He rights himself, looking up at Tony, whose eyes track a large wave in its course of direction. “You think it was easy for everyone in the world to accommodate to _your_ needs? You’re a fool. They tell you you’re a quick learner but you're not. You hang to much on the past, you hold onto dead dreams as if they’ll come true and take you with them.”

 

“I — yes,” Steve can’t, _won’t_ argue when all of Tony’s words are right. He makes to grab Tony’s hand, but the other man pulls back quickly, like Steve’s hands are infectious.

 

“You think I want you? Who would?” He spits, jutting a hand out to push at Steve’s chest, forcing him closer to the edge of the ledge. “The real Tony doesn’t want you. How could you be so stupid to think that?” The once bright eyes of his stare back at Steve with a dull emptiness, mirroring the same vastness is Steve’s heart. His world trembles beneath him, eyes burning hot with tears, terror blooming in the corners of his psyche.

 

“You tried to dream yourself a place where you’d get the love of your life, and you’d live happily ever after. Well, guess what? Fairytales don’t exist, Steve.” Tony’s backed him up flush to the overhang. Steve chances a look beneath him, the water churning and licking at the side of the precipice, climbing higher and higher, reaching out to him. When he turns back to Tony, he sees guilt, grief, and regret paint their way across the other man’s features, tearing him away from the previous moment’s harsh calculation. He places a hand on Steve’s cheek ( _cold,_ Steve thinks,) and smiles grimly.

 

“You’ll die alone, Steve,” Tony remarks, and suddenly Steve wishes he spent more time enjoying his so called ‘fairytale.’ The words bounce around in his brain, the only thing nestling in there besides the fog his senses have conjured up.

 

He hears them echoing while he watches Tony’s figure fade rapidly from view, and they whisper to him as he loses the air from his throat.

 

Tony’s words don’t make him feel anything other than dread as he crashes into the dark water beneath him, and they smother him -- not unlike the liquid filling his lungs.

 

The words don’t silence the panic in his bloodstream -- he thinks he can remember the feeling of drowning before -- water freezing his veins and quieting his heart. He listens to the statement scream in his mind while the hollow of unconsciousness starts to creep up on him, and he falls asleep with the wondrously bright hue of Tony’s eyes beaming back at him.

  
  


\--------------- ------- -- --- -- -- ----------------

 

When he finally, _finally,_ comes to, his brain is beating a steady rhythm against his skull, and his body feels as dead weight as he thinks he is. His eyes won’t open again, but somehow he knows this isn't the fantasy he dreamed up before.

 

It’s probably the familiar touch of metal cuffs on his skin that convinces him he’s broken out of his dreams.  

 

He wants to shout, call out for someone, _anything_ , but even swallowing feels like forcing down razorblades. If he could just _open his eyes, damnit--_

 

“Darling,“ someone drawls, making the hair on the back of his neck stand at straight attention, and god, he should really open his eyes now. “Are you awake yet, Braveheart?”

 

He tries to stay as still as he can, shallowing out his respirations to trick his (captor?) whoever else is here with him. They grumble under their breath, footsteps falling closer to him.

 

“Come now, I know you are not sleeping. I felt you break our connection, dearest,” the voice isn’t Not-Tony’s, so that's a relief, but Steve’s certain he’s never heard it before. After a brief internal battle, Steve decides he’s got nothing left to lose, and so he opens his eyes.

 

If he had the energy to scream, he probably would. Instead, he struggles in his binds, forcing himself into defensive posture -- or as best as he can manage.

 

“Please love, do not try to fight. You will surely die if you do.” They chastise him, resting a tattoo-emblazoned hand on his cheek. It feels like his flesh is ignited with the touch.

 

“Wh-” he starts, but it comes out wretched and scratchy, so he musters up the means to clear his throat. “What did you do to me?”

 

They chuckle, deep and devilish. “Do _to_ you, darling, or did _for_ you?” The question stutters his thoughts, jumping from any strategic ways to escape, to _what did they do for me?_  

“I gave you what you wanted, love, what you deserved,” they sneer, holding his jaw roughly between their fingers. Steve swallows thickly, wanting to focus on anything other than the raging, blackened eyes that scrutinize him. Whoever this is can’t be human, not with the marks they have covering their skin, especially when said marks glow a vibrant electric blue. They wait for him to think, to meet their gaze.

 

“I didn’t want it,” he attests, wrenching his head out of their grasp. They huff, disappointed.

 

“Of course you did, I crafted it just for you. I helped you see what you could have, dear. But now, you will not get it. I gave you a chance to live out your deepest desires, and you ruined it. Insecure little thing, aren’t you?” Steve wishes he could laugh in their face, but his muscles protest at even the slightest movement.

 

“Why me?” he raises, willing the conversation to act as a hindrance, hoping that some form of back-up would be coming for him.

 

The person -- creature -- hums, turning their back to him, pondering his question with an aura of melodrama. Steve wrestles with the handcuffs while he can.

 

“I suppose that’s the million dollar question then, isn’t it? Why you, dear?” They’ve busied themself with something on a nearby table, and Steve’s kinda got one of the cuffs loosened off his wrist. “You are fragile, underneath your mask. Vulnerable. You have many little softspots, things that make you crumble when pressed. A man out of time, you are, now. Your failures did much more than throw you into the harsh reality of life. It made you weak.” He’s working on the aspects of the second cuff, engaging the metal to bend in his grip, when they turn back to him, freshly smoldered iron rod in hand. He tries to will his right hand to pull harder, flicking his gaze between the cuffs and the iron. When they stop about a foot in front of him, he’s managed to get the second cuff lax enough to slip his wrist out of, and he crumples to the floor, arms jellied and aching. They watch, with pity, as he gulps in a few stuttering breaths. “You might have had much to live for,” they sigh, pressing the hot iron to his shoulder. The scorching weapon chars deep in his bare flesh, tearing a scream from his lips. “Had you not been so foolish.” Any strength he had left is lost, gone with the cries that echo in the room.

  
  
  
  


The creature toys with him for what may be an eternity, leaving him blistered and branded on the cold concrete floor. He's left disoriented, but stupidly, unbound. After a while, he tolerates the sting in his skin, clambering onto his knees with shuddering gasps. There’s no one else in the room with him now, so he chances a look at his surroundings, finding that he seems to be locked in a basement of sorts, what with the raised windows and the mustiness of the air. He can’t see any stairs, though, so Steve rests with his head on the floor for a bit longer before he makes to get up and scour the place.

  


It takes him a long time to move around the room, which is more accurately the size of a small apartment. He finally finds a panel on the wall that differs from the rest. He lets go of a panicked sigh, waiting to listen for any footsteps or indications that the creature might be coming back to check on him. When a handful of minutes have passed, he tugs at the panel, wrenching it off and sending it clattering to the ground. What’s left is a roughly two foot wide opening, barely big enough for him to hoist himself up and into. It’s mustier and the air is thicker, more oppressive inside the interstice, but it might be his only way out. He grits his teeth with the the pain that comes from crawling blindly on his open wounds, one hand constantly out to scout ahead of himself.

 

It’s not very long before the tightness of the tunnel gives way to a wider space, emptying into another poorly lit area just beyond an air duct panel. He forces it open, more easily than the last, and drops down to the ground beneath. The vent wasn’t too high up on the wall, thankfully. The walls in this place are a different material, sturdy, where the other ones were badly constructed. The movement made him weak, so he pauses to calm his pounding heartbeat.

 

Just a few feet down the hall, Steve thinks he can see the outline of a door, hoping it to be the exit. With no weapon for defense, and little strength left in his being, _fuck it,_  he thinks, shouldering into it.

  
  
  
  
  


On the other side, in the scant seconds he takes to survey the area, exists a particularly gaudy service center, complete with prosperous businessmen and women, who glare bitterly at him as he promptly faints from exhaustion.

  
  
  
  
  
  


\--------------- ------- -- --- -- -- ---------------

 

The third time Steve wakes up, he can identify his surroundings as a regular old hospital room, accented by the chorus of beeping from various machines. The hospital sheets are scratchy and the bed is seriously uncomfortable, just the way he likes it. Although he can’t focus his senses on them, he knows the burns are well on their way to healing, maybe even fully so depending on how long ago he was admitted. Reluctantly, he forces his eyes open to the blinding white walls and assaulting incandescent lights. It’s good that he ended up somewhere relatively safe, and not dead like he could have been. Granted, the weight of the experience sits heavy in his forefront, phantom touches triggering his nerves every so often. He moves to sit up more, though a mild hand on his blanketed sternum stops him. His eyes follow the line of the hand up the arm and shoulder, finally landing on the owner’s face.

  


“Good to see those eyes, Steve,” Natasha greets, the corners of her lips upturned faintly, alluding to her worry. He makes a conscious effort to smile back.

 

He clears his throat twice, “How long was I out?”

 

Nat purses her lips, inhaling slowly. “Five days.”

 

“Five days?” Steve asks, incredulous. He sits up, this time unstopped. “How long was I gone?” The way her eyes gloss over at that isn’t reassuring.

  


“Three weeks.”

  


She grows quiet after, searching his face while he absorbs the information.

 

She says, minutes later, “you were next to dead when you passed out in that lobby.”

  


“Felt like it,” he admits, occupying his hands with the loose strand on the bed sheet. She lets the clock tick by again, letting him brood.

 

“What happened?” her hand finds his, holding strong. He shakes his head.

  


“I don’t know.” he shakes his head again, making to clear the fog inside. “One minute I was just getting out of a meeting, walking down the street and the next I --” he stops, swallowing indignantly.

 

“Steve, if we want to find whoever did this to you, you have to tell me what happened.” Her tone is firm, yet docile. She doesn’t push, and he’s gratified by that. The moments pass once more, a brick of feeling halting his thoughts from turning to anything other than the dream he conjured.

  
  


“I thought I’d woken up,” he begins, a humorless laughing emphasizing his disbelief. “But it wasn’t in this world. I woke up and it was like I was living in an alternate reality. It was-- it felt so real. I could feel everything like it was actually there.” She listens without interrupting him, and not once does he get the sense that she’s judging him. When he finishes, she hums, pensive.

 

“You ever hear of it?” he asks, thanking her for the small cup of water she hands him.

 

“Once, but it’s never been a common area of expertise,” she notes, bringing her legs up to rest on the side of the bed. “It’s not really a magic, either. More like a supernatural capability.”

 

“The tattoos, those were part of its skin?” She nods.

 

“Djinn’s have them. They’re known fictionally as genies, common in Islamic teachings. Said to be created by Allah from smokeless fire.” Steve quirks an eyebrow at that.

 

“They’re fictional?”

 

“Apparently not, seeing as how you’re the third case of something like this in the last month.”

 

He shakes his head. “I don’t get it. It said I was weak, and that’s why it came after me.” She shrugs, patting his leg briefly.

 

“Everything goes for the weak. Not always in body, but sometimes in mind. They feed off your life force, essentially. Some make you see your greatest fears, others, like the one you got, manipulate your desires.”

 

“How do you know all this?” she tilts her head thoughtfully at his question.

  


“I have some… connections.”

Steve rolls his eyes fondly. “Thanks, Nat. You should go, get some rest. You look like you’ve been waiting too long for me to wake up.”

 

She laughs quietly, rising out of her chair and pressing a quick kiss to his forehead.

“I’ll be back,” she says, “should I tell anyone else that you’re conscious?”

 

“Sam,” he nods, meeting her eyes to confirm a silent promise.

  


When she’s gone, a few nurses come in the room to fuss over his wraps and treat some of the more severe wounds. It’s not much, knowing what’s out there, what got him, but he commits it to memory, determined to be prepared for the next move.

 

\---------------------------------

  
  
  
  


He’s _not_ avoiding Tony. More like, cautiously side stepping any pace he might be, but for all Steve knows that’s probably a form of avoidance.

  


It’s not that he doesn’t want to see Tony, or talk to him, or what have you, but it’s more of that he doesn’t want to _see_ Tony.

  


So if he holes-up in his apartment, researching everything ever written that exists about Djinn, only leaving for exercise and more reading material, who’s going to judge?

 

(Natasha and Sam will, but that’s not the point.)

  


Point is, he’s _not_ avoiding Tony.

  
  
  


\---------------------------------

 

On his nightstand, his cell phone vibrates violently for what must be the fifth time in the span of an hour. Steve groans, pulling the covers up to his chin and making a crass decision to ignore it. For the fifth time. He could, no doubt, roll over and just _check_ who it is, but that would mean leaving the warmth of his bed and joining the rest of the world at -- 7:20 a.m. And yeah, he’s usually an early riser, but it’s only been a week since he was discharged from the hospital and every time he closes his eyes he gets dream-Tony’s staring right back at him, telling him he’s ‘going to die alone.’ So it’s safe to say he hasn’t gotten a real good night’s sleep since being chained and charred by a once-believed mythical creature.

 

Thirty minutes later, he’s gotten up and clothed in something relatively comfortable against his sores, checked his phone to find that it surely was Natasha and Sam who’d called, and asked the local library for a book titled _The Djinn in the Nightingale's Eye_ by some A.S. Byatt.

 

Of course, as he’s walking out, he collides (chest first) with someone a good five inches shorter than him (he can tell from the bloody nose he’s gifted, courtesy of that someone’s forehead.)

  


“Oh my god, I’m so sor- Steve?” and that’s Tony, alright. Steve’s hands fly up to his face, working to hide the gusher from Tony, so he doesn’t get more flustered than he already sounds. “What the fuck? Are you okay? I called you like, ten dozen times!” Tony’s hands are on his biceps, nails digging in none too lightly. He’s actually shouting in Steve’s face, panic striking all of his features. Steve wants to cry.

 

“Tony, Tony- I can, maybe explain?” It comes out more like a question - and way too nasally thanks to the blood in his throat - which does absolutely nothing to calm the other man.

 

“Explain? You went from coming over every fucking day to dropping off the face of the earth! I even called Natasha but she wouldn’t give me the damn time of day!” They’ve got a crowd now, a couple of rude-ass New Yorkers even taking out their phones to film the verbal brawl. Steve takes one hand from his nose (it’s clean, thank _god_ ) and pushes Tony back a half-step.

 

“I swear I’ll tell you everything, can we just, uh, go somewhere less public?” Steve asks, glaring at the few commoners who are recording. Tony balks at the suggestion, blinking rapidly.

 

“Oh. Yes, yeah of course. Happy’s right over there,” Tony jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating the sleek black car parallel-parked in front of the Starbucks across the street. He ushers Steve over to it, keeping one hand on his arm the whole way.

  
  


“Are you okay? Still bleeding?” Tony grimaces when the climb in the back seat, pulling at Steve’s arm to get him to lower it. He does, and the other man winces. “Sorry,” he offers, shrugging timidly. Steve shakes his head.

  


“It’s fine. If anything, I just look like a feral dog.” Tony chuckles softly.

  
  
  


“You can get cleaned up at my place. That’s okay, right?” He appeals, watching Steve expectantly.

  
  
  


“Yeah, Tony. That would be good.” Steve means it, it’s about time he pulled his head out of his ass and faced his fears, real or not.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Tony’s penthouse is nothing if not sophisticated. It’s the same as Steve remembers from when he was here a few weeks ago, same trendy furniture in the same trendy rooms.

  


“Kidnapped?” Tony yelps, handing Steve another dampened cloth from his perch on the marble vanity. Steve thanks him as he wipes away more of the dried blood on his upper lip.

 

“I know. I don’t get why, though.” He shrugs, glancing at Tony out of the corner of his eye. Tony picks at the nonexistent lint on his shirt, shrugging, too.

  


“Come on. Let’s get you some ice for that,” he suggests. Tony hops off the vanity, gesturing for Steve to follow him out of the bathroom.

 

“Here,” he warns, tossing a bag of frozen peas to Steve. Steve huffs out a laugh, copying Tony where he leans against the kitchen counter. They’re silent for a while, tension and unspoken discussions filling the space between them.

 

Steve opens his mouth to speak just as Tony does the same. They lock eyes, breaking out into nervous laughter. Steve signals for him to speak first.

  


“What did it have to do with me, though?” Tony queries, folding his arms over his chest, safeguarding. Steve bites his lip, contemplating what to say exactly, without sending Tony running.

  


“You’re not gonna believe me, aside from the kidnapping part. The rest is kinda, uh, crazy.” Tony purses his lips but doesn’t interject. “It was like, whatever they gave me, it had to have been some kind of hallucinogen,” Steve beguiles, shaking his head. “I had these weird dreams, and you- you were in most of them.” _That much is true_ , Steve tells himself, masking the pit in his stomach that comes with the white lie.

  


“That’s it?” Tony challenges, furrowing his brow. “I was the star of your drugged up dreams and now you hate me?”

  


“It’s not like that, Tony. I don’t hate you.”

  


“Then what, Steve?” Tony scoffs. “I was worried sick, I called you every day I didn’t see you. You can’t just throw me to the wolves like that.”

 

Steve puts the peas down on the counter, wiping his wet hand on his jeans. “I know,” he says, then, “I’m sorry. I just didn’t know what to do. I was afraid I’d do something I’d regret when I saw you.”

 

“Like what? Treat me to a knuckle sandwich?” Steve ducks his head and smiles at the taunt. “What happened in the dreams, Steve?” Tony asks, caution in his tone and manner, tilting his head to catch Steve’s eye.

  


“It’s complicated,” Steve blurts, snapping his mouth shut at the unconvinced look Tony gives him.

  


“If you want me to _not_ be mad at you, you have to tell me.”

 

“I know. But,” Steve runs a shaky hand through his hair and tries to come up with the right words. Tony comes up to him, catching his hand midair.

  
  


“It’s alright. I’m not going to push you, I’m not that much of a douche,” he says, goading another laugh out of Steve.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


\---------------------------

  


“Hey,” Nat greets, ducking under his arm from where he holds the door open.

  


“Uh, hey,” he greets back, shutting the door and turning to face her. She pulls out a few folders and a laptop from one of her bags, placing them on his coffee table in the living room and brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “What’s that?”

  


She props open the laptop, typing quickly from where she seems to have left off. “Laptop, folders,” she says, focused on the device’s screen, and not Steve.

 

“Right, of course. How could I be so stupid,” Steve huffs, settling beside her on the loveseat. “Why laptops and folders?”

 

She glares at him briefly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Usually, when someone wants to know something-”

  


“Nat,” he chides, shoving her shoulder jokingly. She shoves back at him, then points to the laptop screen.

  
  


“I got some help around the station, asked for a couple of the guys to take a look into your case,” She informs, highlighting a group of links to classified sites. He nods, indicating his understanding. “We got a kind of timeline going, as well as multiple gas stop surveillance videos of what might be our suspect.”

  


“Oh my God,” Steve gawks, “that’s - oh my God.” Natasha smiles fondly at him.

  
  


“If we’re right, he’ll be in Pittsburgh sometime tomorrow. I put a call in to the station down there, told them to be on the lookout for a crazy bastard with shitty tattoos.”

  


“Thank you, Natasha, I don’t even - thank you,” he says again, pulling her into a tight hug. She returns it just as strongly.

  


“You’d do the same for me and Sam in a heartbeat,” she pulls back, eyeing him for a moment longer. “How’s Tony?” she asks, closing the laptop and facing him fully. Steve exhales, frustrated with himself more than anything.

 

“He wants me to tell him what happened. Which I kinda did, but, like, not the specifics.”

  


“Do you want to tell him?” Natasha challenges, quirking an eyebrow.

  


“I don’t want him to run away screaming,” Steve answers, “but it might take some of the weight off my shoulders.” Natasha nods respectfully.

  
  


“It doesn’t have to be a case of be-all end-all,” she suggests, “give him an out if you’re worried about it.”

  


“How would I do that?”

  


She pats his arm once before standing. “You’ll figure it out,” she says, walking towards the kitchen. “Coffee?”

  


“From my own home? Sure.”

 

\-------------------------

 

“Washington Square Park,” Tony says, “why?” he drops his aviators down a smidge, flashing a puzzled glance at Steve.

 

“I like the scenery?” Steve tries, waving a hand for Tony to follow. He does, right arm brushing against Steve’s with the movement.

  


“You look good,” Tony admires, giving Steve’s shirt a playful tug at the bottom hem. Steve smiles back at him, batting his hand away.

  


“Sleeping a bit more. Not great, but a couple hours a night does me good.” Tony nods, watching the crowd around them as they walk. They round the side of the fountain closest to the arch, slow paced.

  
  


“Look, Steve, I told you I wasn’t going to push. If it’s that serious than I’m not going to force you into saying anything,” Tony offers, ignoring Steve’s gaze in favor of admiring the etchings on the archway’s stone.

  


“I know, Tony,” Steve assures, watching the nervous tension in the other man’s shoulders. Funnily enough, it _doesn’t_ bring back the memory of Not-Tony’s blow out. “I want to, though. But I also just want to say that no matter what I tell you, you’re not obligated to do anything. I’m not expecting you to jump when I do,” Steve alludes, nudging Tony along to keep walking. Confessions of love are easier with some form of distraction. Tony quirks an eyebrow at him, but shrugs and goes along.

 

“Alright,” Tony agrees, cramming his hands in his pockets. Steve takes a deep breath. _Let the dam flow_ , he supposes.

  
  


“The drugs, or whatever it was they used on me, it made me see some shit,” Steve begins, tracking the stream of the fountain with his eyes. “Stuff I guess I wanted to see. The guy who took me, said it was my deepest desire or whatever,” he plays at nonchalant, but he knows it comes off as more guarded and serious.

  


“Steve,” Tony interjects, but Steve holds a hand up as a ‘let me get to it’ gesture.

  
  


“So even in the dream it felt like I was drugged. But in it, first thing I saw was you. Like, you but, not?” he huffs, running a hand through his hair, a nervous tick. “We were together. In bed.” Tony’s eyebrows shoot up, and Steve shakes his head. “Romantically, more than anything I think.”

  


“Wet dreams about me, Rogers?” he teases, but there’s a hint of something wary in his voice.

  
  


“More than that, Tony. I thought about it, when I was dreaming. And basically I concluded that I’m in love with you. Like in real life. But I told myself in the dream that I could never have you, have that kind of life,” Steve confesses, and they’ve stopped now, under the middle of the archway. “So I told dream-you that, and you- you,” Steve stutters, inhaling shakily.

 

Tony puts a hand on his arm, and Steve recoils slightly. He doesn’t miss the pained look on Tony’s face.

  


“You don’t have to-” Tony starts, but Steve shakes his head.

  


“I do,” he confirms, grabbing Tony’s hand. “I was telling you what I feared, that I didn’t deserve you, that dream-you didn’t really want me. And then we were at your place in Malibu, which I’ve never seen, by the way, and then dream-you told me that I was weak and stupid, and next thing I know I’m drowning in the water beneath your house.” He rattles off, trembling and looking anywhere but at Tony. He _is_ and idiot, god, why did he even tell Tony this, he’s gonna feel so guilty and responsible and hate Steve for ruining his life and-

  


“Steve, Steve,” Tony calls, squeezing his limp hand, “hey, you’re okay, you’re fine,” he mutters, ushering them away from under the arch and over to an unoccupied bench. He pushes for Steve to sit, crouching in front of him. “I’m sorry. For what dream me did,” he offers, resting the hand that isn’t holding Steve’s on his right knee. Steve blinks back the panic, honing in on the pressure from Tony’s hands. He nods once, letting Tony know he’s listening. “I can’t even begin to imagine what you’re going through. But this,” he says, searching Steve’s eyes, “this _is_ real.”

 

Steve winces, biting back a sour response. “I’m not going to force you into doing something just because I was-” Tony waves a hand at him, so Steve shuts up.

 

“You’re not forcing me to do anything, Steve. Whatever choice I make, it’s my own.” He pauses for a second, running a hand along the line of his goatee. “I don’t know the extent of what ‘dream-me’ was thinking when he said that shit, but I would never hurt you, Steve, not on purpose. You’re a good man, kind, brave, and just a little bit self-sacrificial that it’s endearing,” his lips quirk up at the corners, and he plods on, “I didn’t think any sort of romantic confession would end up under these circumstances, but I’ve been carrying the biggest torch for you for a while now,” he admits, snickering modestly.

 

“Wait, what?” Steve asks, “you- what?” he says again, trying to get his brain up to speed. Tony laughs warmly.

 

“I’m telling you I like you, dummy.”

  


“Oh.”

  


Tony laughs more, “now’s the part where you appeal to my ego and tell me you like me back, dork.” Steve grins, rebounding.

 

“With that attitude? I’m not sure I do, to be honest,” Tony feigns rejection at him. “Ah, who am I kidding, ‘course I like you,” Steve professes, and this time, when Tony kisses him, tasting of coffee and comfort, he knows it’s real.

  
  


 

Maybe he won’t die alone, after all.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come say way hey to me on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/shapeshiftinggays)


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